


Lifeline

by ifnot_winter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Emotionally Repressed Winchesters (Supernatural), Episode: s01e15 The Benders, Everything Hurts, Head Injury, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Injury, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Protective Siblings, Sibling Incest, The Winchesters' (Supernatural) Terrible Lives, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:36:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifnot_winter/pseuds/ifnot_winter
Summary: "Dude. You need to sleep." He can feel Sam's eyes, burning slightly, not unpleasantly, along his skin wherever they settle. The hilt of the knife he usually keeps beneath his pillow is just within reach, as is the butt of the pistol he usually doesn't. The brush of polished wood against his fingertips is a flicker of comfort amidst the throbbing insecurity...or perhaps that's just his shoulder. Or his head.Dean grunts slightly in non-reply, refusing to budge in the slightest when Sam squirms beneath him. He can't sleep. The carefully tempered panic he's been riding ever since Sam first vanished plaits tension through his muscles, amplifying his aches and the sharper protests of his injuries, and he's left on edge, wide awake and exhausted and barely willing to permit his eyes to blink for the milliseconds it takes Sam out of his sight.+Coda to 'The Benders.'





	Lifeline

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. I wish.

Originally published 02-22-06, part of an ongoing project to transfer all of my ancient fanworks to ao3.

\+ + +

"Dean." The room is silent, mostly, save for the faint overlapping susurrations of their breathing and the sounds of life from their neighbours on either side, muffled by cost-effective layers of too-thin sheetrock and kitschy 60's wallpaper aged by decades of cheap perfume, sweat, and cigarette smoke. One of the beds is untouched, a few worldly possessions and varying types of otherworldly paraphernalia filling out the rumpled duffels tossed carelessly at the foot of it.

The other bed is a blast radius of twisted low thread-count linen and the staple bedspread of generic hideous pattern and little insulation value that flies past tacky, circles quirky almost-chic and goes right back to the extremes of tacky again; a strange yet fitting frame for the brothers, nude and entwined at the centre of the ancient mattress. Neither of them has succumbed to the fatigue and adrenaline crash yet. Sam wants to.

"Dean." His range of motion is limited by the arm and leg thrown possessively across him, and he can see the occasional shift of his brother's lashes as he blinks, the angles of Dean's cheekbone and Sam's clavicle seeming fused together by Dean's stubborn grip and the heat generated between their skin.

"Dean." Sam's voice is insistent, low and serious in that quasi sanctimonious way that normally tends to make Dean roll his eyes and crank the volume on the tape deck all the way up. Today he just practices the noble art of avoidance through silence.

"Hey." Fingers poke Dean's side, and trying to avoid them makes his throat close from the immediate twinge in his shoulder, the skin at the edges of the burn pulling in extremely not-pleasant ways beneath the bandage and salve Sam applied with such careful hands, commandeering him as soon as he'd emerged from his much-needed shower.

"Dude. You need to sleep." He can feel Sam's eyes, burning slightly, not unpleasantly, along his skin wherever they settle. The hilt of the knife he usually keeps beneath his pillow is just within reach, as is the butt of the pistol he usually doesn't. The brush of polished wood against his fingertips is a flicker of comfort amidst the throbbing insecurity...or perhaps that's just his shoulder. Or his head.

Dean grunts slightly in non-reply, refusing to budge in the slightest when Sam squirms beneath him. He can't sleep. The carefully tempered panic he's been riding ever since Sam first vanished plaits tension through his muscles, amplifying his aches and the sharper protests of his injuries, and he's left on edge, wide awake and exhausted and barely willing to permit his eyes to blink for the milliseconds it takes Sam out of his sight.

He feels Sam drift off after a while, and watches the slow shift in the quality of the slivers of light and shadow creeping around the edges of the drapes pulled tightly shut over the dingy little room's single window. A few hours pass, and his muscles are screaming. Dean only allows himself the slightest shift, grip barely loosening, and he feels fingertips sliding the length of his arm from wrist to shoulder, following their progress with his gaze. A faint shiver works its way along his spine, involuntary, and he glances to Sam's face, so near, their gazes brushing briefly.

Touching Dean's temple, just at the edge of the bandage hiding the angry line of the wound there, Sam presses his cheek to the softness of dark blond hair, mussed and free of product. His lashes dip low over his eyes, then he blinks away the encroaching sleep, determination momentarily sharpening the line of his jaw. "Did you sleep at all?" He asks the question needlessly, the answer plain in the prior locking of their eyes.

"Sure." Dean summons up some of his usual flippant tone in a halfhearted attempt to sell the obvious lie, but he's too tired and edgy to make a decent go of it.

"That was so convincing."

"Glad you thought so. "

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean."

"Go back to sleep, Sammy."

"Don't call me Sammy," is the reflexive response, but Sam doesn't inject it with the usual venom. His tone is actually a trifle soft around the edges, like his fingers on Dean's skin.

He knows Dean won't sleep. Concern and comfort mingle in him with that knowledge, and he doesn't further protest the fingertip bruises Dean's paranoia and exhausted wakefulness will leave in their wake. The spaces between broken capillaries are like the nuances of their silences, secret spellings of love known only to their deciphering.


End file.
